


I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory

by kiaramori



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Actor Dean, Adventure, Alternate History, BAMF Castiel, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Plotty, Protective Castiel, Sam is the Best Brother Ever, Slow Burn, Supportive Sam, Temporary Amnesia, Time Travel, but not too slow, references to Hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-03 22:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6630166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaramori/pseuds/kiaramori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the country struggling through the Revolutionary War, Castiel Krushnic does whatever he can to save his country. On a mission for the Men of Letters, he makes new and powerful enemies that seek to destroy everything he fights for. Then, everything is turned on its head when a talisman sends Castiel more than two hundred years into the future.</p><p>Dean Winchester is a struggling actor who just got his big break in the movie adaption of Washington, a popular hip-hop musical about our nation's forefathers. Then he meets Castiel and his life gets a whole lot more complicated.</p><p>-Or-</p><p>Where Castiel is a fish out of water time traveler and Dean is an actor who takes care of him. (based on Queen Inhyun's Man)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love Time traveling and fics where Castiel is very much a fish out of water, and I'm currently obsessed with the musical Hamilton, so somehow this was spawned.
> 
> This is also basically a remake of Queen Inhyun's Man, this AMAZING Korean tv show. Seriously, you should watch it if you can. But, you don't have to watch the show to understand this story.
> 
> Please tell me what you think, and if there is anything I can make better. (unless it is something that is too late to change.)
> 
> Note: In order to make this a supernatural fanfiction, history has been changed a bit in this story. Instead of it Being George Washington, Michael is filling that role.
> 
> This history is pretty similar, except that there are some political things and people that don't actually exist (Rafael, Lucifer) and Michael falls in love with Anna Milton (real history: Anna Bates) who is a British spy in his camp (this part IS historically accurate, except George Washington and Anna Bates did not, in fact, fall in love.)

Michael nearly cried of happiness when he got the letter. It had been so long that it seemed they had no hope. So long that they were outnumbered. Too many times he'd watched the British cut down his forces. Too many times they'd been forced to retreat and surrender, victory seeming to be forever out of reach.

  
But this was congress telling him reinforcements were on their way. Now, all he had to do was write a response outlining their plans for the British, and where exactly to send the troops, and they would have a chance at winning this war.

  
He set about to writing the response immediately, even though it was late, and he probably wouldn’t be able to send the response until morning. He really should sleep, but that wasn't going to happen any time soon.

  
He was halfway through writing the letter when he realized it was too quiet outside. Nervousness churning in his gut, he called out to the men who had been assigned to guard him that night. "Chambers?"

  
Silence.

 

"Smith?"

  
Nothing. Fear gripped in his chest, and he reached for his sword. Before he could grab it, though, a man burst in to the tent, clothed in all black. He lunged at Michael, and in a moment of clarity, Michael realized his sword was too far away. The man would be on him before he could reach it. He looked the man in the eyes, bracing himself for the blow.

  
Blood splattered over the desk.

  
Michael looked in shock as the assassin's head was sliced from his body. He leaped for his sword, grabbing it in a smooth motion. He looked back at his savior. Already two more assassins lay on the ground, bleeding out. His protector was locked in battle with a fourth, who was clearly more skilled than the others. A fifth assassin joined the fight, then, and Michael was sure this meant the death of his protector. He rushed forward to aid his new ally.

  
Michael stared in horror as the new assassin raised an arm to stab his protector in the back. At the last moment, though, Michael's ally dropped to the ground, and the man's knife stabbed into the other assassin's shoulder as he lost his balance. His protector flew out from underneath them, then, blade flying. Blood flew everywhere, and both assassins went down easily.

  
His protector looked around, assessing the darkness. He seemed to find it satisfactory, though, because his shoulders finally relaxed minutely, and spun around to look Michael in the eyes. He strode forward, finally kneeling at his feet. "General." He said, placing his sword before him in an act of deference.

  
Michael smiled at that. "You're a patriot, then?"

  
"Yes. Castiel Krushnic, Your Excellency." His voice was gravel, and had a strong accent Michael hadn't heard before. It was smooth, lilting on certain syllables, and crisp on others.

 

"And? Name your rank, soldier." Michael prodded gently.

  
Krushnic's mouth twisted strangely. "I'm afraid I am not a soldier, exactly." He lifted his shirt, and Michael studied the small tattoo that sat on his right rib.

  
_He unleashed against them his hot anger, his wrath, indignation and hostility— a band of destroying angels._

  
"Ah. You're a Man of Letters. I must say, I am surprised you revealed yourself. Are you not a secret organization?"

  
"I am following orders, your excellency. We have much to discuss, and not much time."

  
"Come in, then." Michael motioned to his tent, and they disappeared behind the flaps.

  
"Do you mind me asking what it is, exactly, that you do?" Michael asked, walking over to his desk and surveying the damage.

 

"What I do specifically, or what my organization does?"

  
"Both?"

  
"It depends. There are members of our organization in Congress, but there are also many soldiers and captains of infantries. Many spies. I am more…versatile. I have written many essays in favor of revolution. Under a pseudonym, of course. I have also been an assassin, a spy, and bodyguard. My superiors have used me in many capacities during this war."

  
"And now? What was your purpose here tonight?"

  
"My superiors told me of a plot by the Tories to kill you tonight, and intercept the letter you sent to Congress. They planned to steal the information and eradicate the reinforcements before they even arrived. My task was to protect you from their assassins, and to deliver your letter safely in the hands of Congress."

  
"Ah. Very well, then. Let me finish writing, then."

  
"I was also told to inform you of some steps you need to take over the course of the next few months."

  
"Oh? Such as?"

  
"Anna."

  
Michael felt his cheeks heat in shame. He couldn't know, could he? No. It was impossible.

  
"Wh-what about her?" He stumbled over the words.

  
"Our information suggests you and her have been engaging in…illicit relations. It would be good if you continued."

  
" _What?_ I—I…. "

  
"She is a British spy. It would be prudent if you fed her false information." He paused. "If you could turn her to our side, that would be better, but I am unsure in how successful you would be in that endeavor."

  
" _What?!_ "

  
"I don't have much time. Will you continue to be scandalized by simple truths, or may I continue?"

  
"You…you're a bastard."

  
"I assure you, my birth was perfectly legitimate. Now, moving on. We have been informed about an attack the British are planning…"

  
_________________

  
Zachariah ran through the streets of New York, finally stopping at a large estate. He knocked at the door. "Sir! Sir, please open up!" He waited only moments before the door flew open.

  
"Sh!" The lord of the house whispered harshly, voice like a sword. "Do you wish to alert the entire household?!"

  
"I'm sorry, sir, it's just--" He relayed his message, and the other man's face turned as white as a sheet. He rushed through the darkened streets, stopping at a nearby estate. He knocked twice, and the door opened lazily. "Rafael. To what to I owe this particular honor?"

  
"Lucifer, I am not in any mood for your games. Let me in." Lucifer tilted his head in acknowledgement, letting the other man in easily.

  
"So, what is the problem?" He asked, looking bored. "Unless this is a social visit." His grin was wolfish, but Rafael didn't take the bait.

  
"Our messenger was intercepted." He answered, and Lucifer's face lost its calm. "The plan to assassinate the general was unsuccessful. I imagine it's only a matter of time before they find out it was us that staged it in the first place."

  
"What?!" He screeched, before containing himself. "You know what this means, Rafael. If Congress gets word of our plot, it's all over. No more fun and games; just execution. If we're lucky."

  
"Don't you think I know that? I do, Lucifer. I have already sent men out to kill the interceptor. He's at the general's camp now, so that should give us a bit of time before he can reach the city."

  
"Please, Crowley, we have mere hours and you know it. Double the number of assassins on his tail, and none of those useless thugs either. Your best men, Rafael."

 

"Immediately, my lord." Rafael briskly turned on his heel, ready to leave.

  
"Wait." Rafael turned back around, and Lucifer fixed him with a frightening look. "Who was he? The interceptor?"

  
"Castiel Krushnic. Do you know him?"

  
"Yes I do. He's dangerous, but it's not as bad as I thought. Kill him without hesitation."

  
"Of course."

 

 

"Do you even know what you are suggesting? Treason is no small claim, Castiel." Michael's voice was harsh. "We will need more proof than a few dead assassins."

  
"I am aware." Castiel answered evenly, pulling a piece of paper from the folds of his coat. "I have a written mandate from Congressman Rafael to assassinate you."

  
He handed the paper over, and Michael studied it, gulping. His eyes hardened with anger, then fear, then defeat. "They will try to kill us again."

  
"Nobody can be safe until they are put down." Was Castiel's only answer. Michael glanced down at him, frowning.

  
"I cannot let you do this. It…this is risky business, Castiel. They undoubtedly know of the failed plot now. They will go after you for having this. If I send you out there, I am sending you out there to die."

  
"Then let me die in the service of my country." Castiel's voice held no fear.

  
"I—I cannot, Castiel! It is better to wait, to—"

  
"The longer we wait, the easier it will be for them to find and kill us. There is only one course of action here." Castiel pressed, eyes lowering to the floor in a show of submission. "It is to depose Lucifer. If he is left to his devices, he will undoubtedly cause the death of many soldiers and civillians."

  
Michael heaved a long, steady sigh. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were etched in stone. "Very well. Do it."

  
"I will leave my men to protect you." Castiel offered, and Michael gave a small, humorless laugh.

  
"It is not me they will be after this night. Ride swift, Castiel."

 

 

Rich merchants danced drunkenly, alcohol splashing as they swayed dangerously. Giggling, half-dressed women draped around them. Music played and the sound of strings cut through the night in a sweet melody.

  
Playing the violin was another prostitute, but she wasn't giggling and twittering along with the other girls. She smirked distractedly at the men, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She distractedly scanned the outer gardens, and was rewarded by a glimpse of blue in the bushes. Her attention was caught, and a string snapped.

  
The men complained loudly, and she escaped easily into the safety of the gardens. "What brings a guy like you to a place like this?" She purred, and Castiel smiled back at her.

  
"Meg." He grinned, relieved.

  
"Clarence." She returned, expression holding a bit more heat. He was, as ever, oblivious, so her attention turned elsewhere. "You're bleeding. What, you forgot how to protect yourself now?"

  
"I'm fine." Castiel glanced down at his injured shoulder. It was a knife wound, but it had done little more than nick him. He was fine. "Meg, I apologize for being so hurried, but you must understand, I have little time. Rafael's men are after me."

  
"What did you get into now?" Meg asked, voice betraying little of her underlying concern.

  
"There is no time to explain." Was his only answer. He pulled a letter out of his coat. "I need you to take care of this it must not enter into Rafael's hands. I will come back for it soon. In the event of my death, you must give it to the Continental Congress."

  
"Clarence." Meg's voice was stony now. "Don't you dare get yourself killed."

  
"I will try not to." Castiel offered a tiny hint of a smile. "If we do not meet again, Meg, thank you. You are, and always were, a dear friend to me."

  
"You stupid--!" Castiel was already mounting his horse. "Fine—fine. I'm not so foolish I will try to talk you out of one of your oh-so-noble-idiot causes. Just—take this, okay?" She passed him a piece of paper with strange writing on it.

  
"What is this?" Castiel examined it, tilting his head curiously.

  
"I charm for protection. Got it from a witch a little ways away. I figured you'd need it, what with you always trying to kill yourself."

  
Castiel gave a small laugh, trying to hand it back to Meg. "Please. I am not so foolish as to trust my life into the hands of a useless scrap of superstition."

  
"And yet you will entrust it will a whore." Meg shot back. "Look, just keep it on you. If you don't believe in it that's fine. No harm done. But if it is real…it could help."

  
"Meg."

  
"Just let me have my peace of mind?" She requested finally, and he was taken aback by the emotion in her eyes. His mouth twisted into a thin line.

  
"Very well. Thank you Meg. For everything." He leaned closer to her, debating what to do. Finally, he embraced her. She gasped, wrapping her arms around him. Too soon, he pulled away, and hopping onto his horse.

  
They looked into each other's eyes for a long moment before he finally pulled away and rode off into the night.

 

 

The full moon was a curse in these woods. If it were darker, he'd be able to hide himself in the shadows of the trees. As it was, his coat veritably gleamed in the moonlight. The men chasing after him fired arrow after arrow towards him, and it was only luck that saved him. Finally, he gave up, twisting a corner and forcing his horse to lie down to hide them. He waited until the enemy horsemen had all passed, before getting back up and changing his course.

  
They were quick to spot him again, and he pressed his legs into the side of his horse, willing her to go faster. Just a little more, and—the city of New York spanned before him. He felt hope surge in his chest, and he pressed forward eagerly. The other riders slowed, hiding themselves in the darkness of the forest, and he managed to make it into the city safely.

  
A quick word with the guards at the gate was enough to get him inside, and he managed to make it to the meetinghouse of Congress just as the first rays of light were inching over the horizon. This was it. He was safe now, and he would relay the message to the council.

  
A servant waited at the door. He was an older, balding man, and he twitched nervously as Castiel approached him. "I have to meet with Congress. I have important business to discuss."

  
"Ah…" The servant stuttered at his request. "Well, there is a…meeting…in session right now. I couldn't—going in now might be improper. Perhaps you could wait in the library? I will announce your presence, and then they'll let you in as soon as their current business is finished."

  
"Very well." Castiel nodded.

  
He allowed himself to be ushered into the library easily, and soon pulled out a book and started to read.

  
Ten minutes later, he found himself pacing the library with worry. What was taking them so long? Surely it shouldn't take this long for them to pause long enough to allow him into their meeting. At the very least the servant could have come in and told him their answer.

  
Finally, the door opened, and he breathed a sigh of relief, turning to meet the person at the entrance. But it was not the servant, nor any member of Congress. A masked man darted forward, swinging a knife at him. Castiel dodged easily, cursing his own lack of a blade. He'd left his sword at the gate too naively. He scrambled with something to use as a weapon, but there were only books.

  
He grabbed two, throwing them at his attacker, before pushing one of the bookcases down on top of him. The assassin dodged, stepping back before lunging at Castiel once more. Castiel caught it with a book, spinning it until the man's grip on his sword was compromised. He lurched forward, sword falling from his grasp, and Castiel moved in to land a punch. The man dodged, swinging himself to the floor, picking up the blade once more.

  
"So the servant is a traitor after all," Castiel deduced, flinging another book at the man.

  
The assassin lunged at him again, and soon they were locked in their deadly battle once more. The two of them fought, but the man was good, and Castiel had no weapon. The man stabbed Castiel in his injured shoulder, and Castiel cried out in pain, dropping to the ground. He rolled from the assassin's grasp, but soon he found himself lying on the ground, trapped in by the man's legs. The man moved to deliver the final blow, and Castiel grabbed a book to use as a shield.

  
They were at a standstill, the assassin standing, gripping his sword, murder in his eyes. Castiel was on his back, gripping the book for dear life. The blade slowly sank between the pages. Castiel looked at the sword, the book, the man. _This is it,_ he thought. _I shall die here, and I shall never see our nation's independence._

 

  
__________________________________________________________________

 

 

Dean was screwed. Royally screwed, and there was no way he was getting out of it. That stupid, stupid dentist and that awful New York traffic and the stupid parking lot that was possible to find a space—there. He bounded up the stairs, looking for the third floor.

  
Finally he reached the third floor. Now he could just—where the hell was it? He moved from door to door, searching inside. Nothing. The entire floor was empty. He rushed downstairs. Maybe he had the wrong floor or something? But the second and fourth floor were equally empty, and finally, he stopped in front of a skinny guy wearing a beard and glasses.

  
"Hey, I'm looking for the auditions for Washington?" He asked, and the man lit up.

  
"Oh yeah, third floor, man."

  
"I already went to the third floor." Dean explained, frustrated. "There's nothing there."

  
"Huh…wait…it's the third floor of the building next door."

  
"What?"

 

"Yeah. There are two buildings—it's in the one next door. Just go down to the lobby, and the entrance is on your right."

  
"Okay, uh, thanks." Dean took a look at his watch. He was late, but… He squared his chin, starting to race down the stairs. Unfortunately, he was wearing a pair of very new dress shoes with very little traction, and his foot his one of the steps wrong and he went flying.

  
When he finally got up from the bottom of the stairs, he was in pain, frustrated, and defeated. He looked at his watch again: 4:05. Who was he kidding? The audition was long over by now.

  
He heard his phone ringing, and he looked at the caller ID. He sighed, picking it up.

  
"So, are you there? What does it look like?" His brother's voice was metallic through the phone. Dean sighed morosely.

  
"I'm pretty much here, but…it's done. I lost my chance, Sammy, the audition's over."

  
"What? How can it be over?" Sam's voice was worried and a little incredulous.

  
"It was supposed to be at three. If I came in now, I'd be more than an hour late. A+ for professionalism, there. I just…argh, I told you it wasn't going to work out, Sammy. And then I tried really hard, but the stupid dentist—I told him I had an audition at three, but then he just kept happily moseying along, chipping away at my teeth, like there wasn't a care in the world—agh, I really hate this, Sammy. I'm sorry I let you down."

  
"Wait, wait. The audition's at three?"

  
"Yeah, so…"

 

"What's the matter, Dean? Go over there, it's like 3:05!"

  
"Huh? But my watch says 4:05…."

  
"How could—wait, ae you using my watch again? The silver one?"

  
"Uh, yeah."

  
"That's an hour ahead, I haven't switched it since the time changed!"

  
"Then it's—" Dean checked his phone. 3:06. Time was a-wasting. "Okay, okay, I'm gonna go to the audition. No sweat. Ha. 3:05? I'm there. I'll knock them out of the park."

  
"That's what I'm talking about, Dean." Sam grinned. Dean rushed down the stairs, a smile on his face.

 

 

When he finally got to the audition, they verified his name, and said he had thirty minutes before it was his turn to go. He smiled excitedly at that, turning around to find somewhere to change. He'd arrived in a Zep shirt and ripped jeans, and that didn't exactly scream "professional actor".

  
He couldn't find any bathroom on that floor or the next, but he did find a tiny little alcove that was pretty much completely shielded from view. He brought a poster to hide the opening and shrugged. This would have to do. He shucked his pants and shirt methodically, and was leaning down to get his boxers when suddenly somebody pulled up the blinds at the side of the wall.

  
Well. Looks like it wasn't as shielded from view as he thought. He turned around, struggling to hide his embarrassment, and came face to face with the most evil force of darkness imaginable. She smirked at him, allowing her eyes to travel up and down his body unabashedly.

  
He felt his face flush with anger. "Close the blinds." She obviously didn't hear him, or didn't care, because she kept her eyes firmly on him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Close the—okay, fine, whatever."

  
He grabbed his pants from the bag, and shoved his legs through them, trying to dress in the quickest, most un-sexy way possible. Of course it would be Bela. Because this day really needed to get any worse. When he walked out, fully dressed in a suit, he ignored her in favor of walking down the hall.

  
"Dean! Dean, wait!"

  
"Screw you, Bela." He called back, not looking at her.

  
"Wait, I just wanted to say—the back of your shirt's not tucked in. I can see it peeping out behind your suit coat." Dean blushed, halting in his tracks to rectify the error, and she came to stand in front of him.

  
"Dean Winchester. Fancy meeting you here." She grinned wickedly. "I see you're still looking as stunning as ever."

  
"Well, you're not. Looks like your plastic surgery didn't go too well." He shot back childishly, but she just shrugged it off, unconcerned.

  
"You know, Dean, I've been thinking a lot and…I miss you."

 

"Well, I don't miss you, bitch."

  
"Not at all?" She arched a brow.

  
"Well, it's kind of hard to miss someone when you see them every freaking day on tv." Dean rolled his eyes, continuing to walk. Bela walked alongside him, managing to look triumphant despite the fact that he was turning her down cold. "I feel like there's a new scandal any time I blink. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you're getting around, though."

  
Bela rolled her eyes. "What, are you still bitter about our little break up? I thought it was mutual."

  
"It was!" Dean pulled away, walking faster. "It was a totally mature, mutual break up, and now it's time to stay maturely, mutually apart."  
"Aw, you are still mad. That's adorable."

  
"I'm not!" Dean forced himself to slow his pace.

  
"Okay…so, what are you here for? I assume it wasn't just to give me a striptease?"

  
"I'm here for an audition." Dean answered, looking down at her. "That's right, you remember those? Or do you not do them anymore, now that you're an A-lister."

  
"I don't, to be honest." She answered, and Dean rolled his eyes.

  
"Well, I wouldn't want to sully your reputation by you being seen with a nobody like me, so…" He began to walk away again.

  
"Dean!" She hadn't moved, so when she called out to him, she was a few paces back. "Good luck on the audition." Here voice was wry, like she was saying some sort of private joke.

  
Dean flipped her off, not even turning around.

 

 

"Name?" The director asked when Dean reached the stage. He was a gruff looking man, wearing a baseball cap and plaid flannel. Dean liked him already.

  
"Dean Winchester." Dean stood up straight, trying to appear more confident than he felt.

  
"Looks to me like you don't got much experience with acting, boy. All I see are tiny roles here and there. You do more modeling, by the looks of it."

  
"Uh, yeah. I have been taking classes for acting, and I definitely take it seriously as a career." He answered, looking away nervously. "Also, this part involves singing and rapping, which I have some experience in."

  
"You do?"

  
"Yes. Me and my friends did freestyle rap since I was a kid, and I won some competitions as a teenager."

  
"Hm. Well, let's—" Suddenly the door opened, and the director stood up to greet the newcomers. "Oh, Ms. Talbot, it's so nice of you to join us."

  
Bela entered the room confidently, shaking his hand. The company president stood at her right, laughing and speaking with her and the director.

  
"Oh, hey, kid. This is Bela Talbot. She's the one playing Anna. Do any good in the audition, and she'll be your love interest on the show."

  
"WHAT?!" It came out quite a bit louder than Dean intended.

  
"Oh, looks like we got a fan." The company president laughed, and Dean just stood, dazed. Bela was Anna. That was it, he was screwed.

"Bela, we want you to tell us what you think about all the auditionees. Of course, the final decision comes down to Bobby, our director, but your opinion matters, too."

  
"Of course, president." She grinned, and slyly glanced over at Dean. "Actually, I was thinking: Everyone always seems to cast angelic, innocent types as Michael Washington. What if in our rendition, it was a little…fresher? Instead of an innocent saint who was manipulated by Anna, we could have a straightforward, dumb guy that never even knows he's being manipulated."

  
She grinned, Holding her hands up. One hand shielded the other from Bobby's view, and the hidden hand pulled up the middle finger, flipping Dean off.

  
_Check. Mate._ She grinned, and Dean wanted to throw up.

 

 

 

"So?" Sam called when Dean was drowning his sorrows in beer and burgers. "On a scale of one to ten, how much did they love you? Nine? Ten? Eleven?"

  
"One." Dean moaned.

  
"What?! How is that even possible?"

  
"Bela." Dean sighed. "She's the lead actress for the TV show, and she was at the audition. Anytime I said anything she laughed behind her hands, or gave me one of her dumb looks."

  
"That bitch. Why does she—it wasn't enough of her to do what she did back then, now she has to turn up and ruin your career?!" Sam was livid.

  
"Whatever, Sam. It was doomed from the start, anyways. There were a bunch of other candidates there, and they all looked pretty good. You know, maybe this acting thing isn't really for me."

  
"Don't be ridiculous, Dean. You're really good. Plus, if you give up one more dream for me, I…I won't forgive myself."

  
"It's not for you, Sammy, don't be a dumbass. I just…sure, I like it. It's fun. But fun doesn't exactly pay the bills, and being a mechanic pays enough that a couple of photoshoots here and there pays the bills just fine."

  
"Dean….just try a couple more, please? For me?"

  
"Sure, whatever, Sam. I'm just tired is all. I'm coming home, though."

  
"Okay. I'll be here."

 

 

Dean was in the taxi when the phone rang. "Uh, Mr. Winchester?"

  
"That's me." Dean answered, untrusting of any unknown number.

  
"This is Robert Singer, the director. We've done a lot of deliberating, and we've decided: you're the one we want. You got the part."

  
Dean's face lit up in an immediate smile. "Really?!"

  
"Yeah. You better be there for the photo shoot first thing tomorrow morning. Don't be late."

  
"No, of course not. Thank you so much, director. I promise you won't regret this!"

  
"Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow, kid."

  
________________________________________________

 

 _This is it_ , Castiel thought, holding the book in his hands, wounded shoulder aching from the strain. _I will die tonight._ The assassin let forth a mighty roar, and the sword shoved through the book and into Castiel's chest.

  
Or at least it should have. The sword clattered to the ground, the man falling over.

  
Castiel was gone. From one second to the next, he completely disappeared.

 

 

 

 

Castiel woke to find himself in the same room, but completely empty, bare of any people or even furniture. He looked around, suspicious. What had happened? Was he in Heaven? Somehow, it seemed too dark and dreary to be heaven.

  
He was aroused from his thoughts when a light, brighter than any had ever encountered shone through the open door. Castiel scrambled back, hiding in the corner closest to the door, hidden from view.

  
"See, there's nothing there, dummy. I told you."

  
"I was _sure_ I heard something, though."

  
"Nah. You're just a scaredy cat, like always."

  
"No I'm not!"

  
The light receded as the voices got more distant. Castiel blinked. Well, that was…odd. Their manner of speech was certainly not becoming of castle guards…but they could not be thieves, with a light like that. Angels? But Castiel found it unlikely that angels referred to each other in such derogatory terms.

  
But the light had not been natural, he was sure of that. He snuck out of the room, finding his way through empty passageways until he finally came into the gardens.

  
The sight that met his eyes was…too much. It was otherworldly, in a way he could not begin to describe. There was a group of people dressed normally in the middle of the garden. But surrounding them were odd metal rods and lights even brighter than the one he'd faced earlier.

  
Hovering around the group of normal people were dozens of people wearing the strangest clothing. Some hid behind huge metal boxes, and others examined different black boxes, but each seemed to move with practiced efficiency that told him they weren't simple intruders in the palace. He was still staring at every tiny oddity, rolling over the possibilities in his mind, when he felt someone tap his back.

  
He spun around, ready to face an attacker, but there was just a man there, looking happy and oblivious. His hair was as shorter than any Castiel had seen, and it spiked up at the top of his head. His shirt was of the same odd make as the others, and is stretched tight across his chest. He wore many layers, and his coat was thick and short, made from cloth or something only slightly sturdier.

  
"Hey! So, what role do you play?" He asked, voice light. Castiel stared at him, unsure what to make of this. What role did he play…in what? In the revolution? In Congress? The man misinterpreted his silence, though, and kept talking. "Oh, don't worry. I'm a part of the cast, too. I…look, don't tell anyone, but I'm actually Michael."

  
"Michael." Castiel repeated, lost. Michael Who?

  
"Yeah." The man's face lit up. "You know, Michael Washington? Man, I'm so pumped. But look, they only figured it out like, thirty minutes ago? So don't tell anyone. It's a secret."

  
Castiel just stared. There was literally no way of making sense of that sentence. The man was not Michael. He didn't even look like Michael. And how could he have just figured out his identity thirty minutes ago? He was a grown man.

 

 

Dean was pretty weirded out by this cast member, to be honest. When he'd gone up to talk to the guy, he'd figured he was going to get some small talk in with one of the supporting characters. Instead, he got a stare down from a weirdo.

  
"Uh… _are_ you a member of the cast?" He finally, asked, suddenly unsure. The man stared out him without giving an answer. One of the lights from the set shone in their direction, and the man suddenly turned his intense glare in the direction of the light.

  
Dean couldn't tell if the guy looked angry of scared. "Uh…are you okay?" He asked, and the guy turned back to look at him, still glaring just as intensely.

  
"Uh…yeah, so I brought these snacks for cast members. Do you want one?" There. The perfect escape. He gives the guy a donut and then he can make his escape as the guy eats. He held one out the man, but was just met with more staring. "Do you…not like donuts?"

  
More intense staring. The man took the donut, but held it in his hand uselessly. His focus was set entirely on Dean. This was weird, embarrassing, and frankly uncomfortable. Dean began to awkwardly turn away, finally guessing he was dealing with a crazy guy and the best way to deal with those was to just retreat slowly. He had his head halfway turned around when the man finally spoke.

  
"Answer me this." And whoa, was that voice gravely. "Am I dead or am I dreaming?"

  
Dean turned back to the guy. "Wait, is that a serious question?"

  
The man narrowed his eyes. "Of course."

  
"Well, uh, okay man. You asked, though, so don't go complaining about the answer."

  
"I swear to you that I will not." And wow, who even talks like that?

  
"Okay, well, if I had to say…in my honest opinion…you're not dead or dreaming. Actually, I think you're just drunk."

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Well, where is he?" Zachariah asked the assassin expectantly.

"He, uh, was here. But he disappeared. I was going to stab him and he just up and vanished—like magic!" The man was in shock. Zachariah strode forward, slapping the killer across the cheek

"Pull yourself together, Uriel—you know how important this is. I have no time for your games!"

"I know how important this is!" Uriel answered, slapping Zachariah's hand away. "Which is why I would not lie. He disappeared; I saw it with my own eyes."

Zachariah was silent for a few beats, studying him. "Fine, well, we have little time. He can't have left the palace" He looked on the mess thoughtfully. "Well, while we're at it, we might as well blame him for the goings on. He might be able to hide from two men, but he will not be able to hide from the entire guard."

Uriel nodded, leaving the room, and Zachariah stayed, continuing to look on at the ruined bookshelves. "Castiel…." He tested the name on his tongue. "And here I thought you were a simple immigrant…what other tricks do you have up that sleeve of yours?"

 

"I think you're just drunk." The man (Michael??) clasped Castiel's arm, and Castiel stared at him in disbelief. Too much to drink? After everything, the man thought he was a drunkard? The man seemed unaware anything was wrong, so he just laughed and continued. "Or you're nutso, but hey, I don't judge."

Castiel stared at him in a mix of disbelief and confusion. Not reacting, because he had no idea how to react. The man was insulting him so candidly, there was no protocol for it. Beyond that the way he formed his sentences was odd. He was obviously judging Castiel, so why did he say he didn't? Why did he call Castiel nuts? What did that mean? Castiel didn't even have a particular opinion of nuts.

The man obviously realized something was wrong, because he began to become visibly uncomfortable. "Uh, that is to say….I mean, you…hey, if you want to drink, I'm totally cool with that."

Castiel stared.

"Or…I mean, I don't really think you're nuts, I was just…it was a joke, okay? Obviously you kind of missed the punchline, cause—" Michael(?) was scraping his hands along his scalp, and Castiel squinted at him. Nothing made sense.

"Winchester!" The man turned in response to the name, so Castiel guessed it must be his. He paid no mind to the man as he spoke with another of the funnily dressed people. Castiel stalked off, back to the room where he arrived.

 

"It'll be another ten minutes." The crew member was saying, and Dean gave him a big, fake grin.

"No, worries, I'll be right over here." He dismissed the man, looking over to the weirdo again…or where the weirdo had been. Somehow, in the course of the three seconds Dean took his eyes off of him, he had managed to disappear. "Well, good riddance." Dean sighed out, thinking: He was probably actually crazy.

 

Castiel, meanwhile was in the library once more, this time studying the charm Meg had given him. He looked at the words: Latin. "Tempus, via, iungo, voco, locus, opus, eripio, hominis" It was odd; they were not written in sentence form, but instead words had been arranged seemingly at random. He read the words aloud, tasting them on his tongue. The world spun around him.

He was back in the library, just as he'd left it. He looked around, surprised. Could it really have been so simple? He raced to the gardens, to see if the strange beings were there. Instead he found just the guards, doing their rounds as normal.

He was back.

"This is an outrage!" He heard, to his left. It was the servant; the one who had directed him to the library in the first place. He hid behind a pillar, listening carefully. "Someone enters the library—armed and with a sword no less. It must have been an assassin. Guards—"

Castiel didn’t wait for him to finish. It looked like he knew exactly who the traitor within the palace was. He rushed through the shadows to the main gate. Walking up to the guards, he adopted a hurried sense of frustration. "I must leave immediately." He announced "Hand me my sword."

"Uh, sir? We can't. We were ordered not to let anyone enter or leav—"

"Give me my sword immediately!" Castiel didn't raise his voice, but he made it sharper, biting.

"Sir, we can't just—"

"You do not understand. The orders were not to let anyone in or out of this building. You have already let me in; if they find this out, you will be held responsible and punished." The guards' eyes filled with sudden panic.

"But we just let you in because you said you had urgent business for Congress—"

"I lied." Castiel interrupted, looking them dead on. "Now, unless you wish to be disciplined for letting a traitor into the meeting of the most influential people in the colonies, I suggest you give me my sword. Now."

The men looked between each other, finally giving in and reluctantly giving Castiel his sword. Castiel took it, facing them. "Now, if either of you wishes to live, you must not tell a soul that I came in to this place." He left them, then, to their panic. He mounted his horse and rode into the night.

 

"Congratulations, your excellency!" Sam cheered, and the two brought up their cans of beer and clanked them together, before drinking from them. They were in their apartment, snacks and beer strewn out over their coffee table.

"Thank you, my dear servant." Dean grinned back at him, taking a swig of beer and picking at his sweats, where a bit of sauce had spilled earlier. "It is a victory I could not have won without your support."

"I live to serve, my general." Sam smiled, bowing slightly. "But, seriously, dude. I think the most lines you've ever had in a show was, like, three? And now you're a lead actor? It's awesome."

"Yeah, and it'd be perfect if only the leading lady wasn't Bela, of all people." Dean's grin twisted into a grimace.

"Speaking logically, though, it's kind of a good thing you're working with her. Now, don't get me wrong. She's evil. I get it. But right now, she's one of the top stars. Any movie she does is gonna get high ratings." Sam winked at Dean. "High ratings means more money"

Dean scowled at him. "I'd rather make less money and not have to deal with her at all though. Besides, this is only the beginning. In a bit, I'll be the hot a-lister with directors lining up for me."

"Yeah, okay, Dean. Anyways, don't get too comfortable. Now's where the real work begins. We've gotta make you leave an impression on everyone." Before Sam could specify how that would actually work, though, there was a knock on the door.

"Ae you expecting anyone?" He asked, and Dean shrugged. Sam got up to answer it, calling, "Who is it?" as he walked. He opened the door.

"Hello, Sammy." Sam reeled back in shock, slamming the door. He spun around to Dean.

"It's Bela!" Dean coughed up his beer.

"What?! Don't answer it!"

"Well, I already did!"

"Well, then, tell her I'm asleep or something!"

"I can hear you, you know." Bela called from outside of the door. She opened it and walked through like she owned the place. "Anyways, I'm not here for pleasure, boys, it's for business."

"Well, business can wait until tomorrow, then, Bela, get out." Dean answered, but Sam shushed him.

"What was it?" He asked, voice a bit nicer.

"The director seems to think Dean is the right choice, but I have my doubts. I want to run some lines with you, to see how you'll do."

"Well you can take those lines and shove them up your—"

"Dean!" Sam cried, flailing as he tried to stop his brother. "Uh, could I talk to you alone for a sec?" He basically dragged Dean into the back hallway.

 

"What?" Dean demanded as soon as they were alone.

"Look, I know you hate Bela. I hate her, too. But…she's the lead actress…and a really famous one at that…she really could make your life miserable during the show. And if she talks badly about you on social media? Well, you can basically say goodbye to your career—all her fans are gonna hate you."

"Well then all her anti-fans won't, just—the director said I deserve the role. The casting people too…so what right has she got to say otherwise?"

"Look, Dean, I get it. I really do, but this is too important for you to just throw it away because you're proud. So just, run the lines with her? Okay?"

Dean was silent for a minute. "Okay, fine, but she's not going to bully me into leaving the show. I'm here because the directors picked me, so I'm here to stay."

"That's the spirit."

Dean stormed out into the living room. "All right, come on, Bela, we can run lines outside."

 

They ended up on the roof. "Ah, our spot. How sentimental." Dean's only answer was his middle finger, so she glided around the roof, finally stopping at a bench. "You know, I'm surprised you're still living here. Five years and still the same tiny little apartment…could it be you haven't gotten even a cent richer since back then?"

"Yeah, you really have no right at all to say that, so I'm just going to ignore it." Dean frowned at her. She looked around, unconcerned.

"Where's that plant I got you? Don't tell me you got rid of it?"

"If I still kept the plant of my ex-girlfriend after two years wouldn't that just make me a crazy guy? No, Bela, your plant is dead."

"I suppose you're right." Bela sighed, looking into the distance longingly. "Fine, I'm a busy woman. I'm here to talk to you about acting, not the past."

Dean nodded. "Look, if you think I'm going to let my feelings for you get in the way of my acting—"

"Ah? So you admit you do have feelings for me."

"Of course I do. Feelings of hatred."

"You tell yourself that, boy. No, actually, I wasn't worried about that at all. I think acting normally with me on screen is really the least you can do. No, I was more worried about your acting in general."

"My acting in general?"

"It was…bland."

"Freaking—literally everyone else liked my acting, Bela, you can't just—"

"Well, those lines were things anyone could act out. I want to run lines with you, see if you're up to the more…emotional part of acting."

"You—fine. Fine, what part do you want?" Dean gave in. Bela smiled, passing him a script. "Page twenty five."

She stood, pacing back and forth as she got into character. "After all that I did to you, why did you never open my eyes to my errors in judgment?"

Dean scrambled for the right place. "I was not able to find the right moment, because of my foolishness. Please blame me because of that foolishness." His eyebrow twitched. What? Was this just a trick to get Dean to call himself an idiot?

"Was it that you did not see? Or did you not wish to see?"

"How could I—" Dean protested angrily, then bowed his head in submission. "You are right. I should have—"

Bela's face turned soft and understanding. "Come to me, my love."

"Uh…" Dean glanced down at the script.

He refuses to come. She approaches him. They kiss. Was written succinctly on the page.

He looked up, and she was right in front of him. He stepped back, and she entered his space again. "What are you doing?" He asked defensively. "I thought we were just going over lines?"

"Should we start seeing each other again?" Bela asked so suddenly that Dean could only blink in surprise.

"What?"

"I mean, now you're my costar…so by the end of this, we'll really be at the same level of fame. So it wouldn't be a huge scandal. And you can't deny you have feelings for me."

"What?"

"The fact that you were chosen to play my love interest. Doesn't it feel a little like destiny?"

"No. Look, Bela, I don't know what you think this is, but—" Suddenly, Bela pulled at the front of his shirt, bringing him down for a kiss.

Dean froze, unsure of what to do, and Bela moved her lips around his own before pulling back. She grinned up at him. "Okay. You know, I think you'll do just fine."

Dean's mouth worked as he tried to come up with a response. Bela patted his chest, groping it a little. "See you at the photoshoot." She winked, pulling away. She glided to the door, looking smug.

"Freaking—Bela!" Dean protested, chasing her, but she was already rushing down the stairs. "Congratulations, Dean! The role's yours!" She called over her shoulder.

"The role was already mine, you bitch!"

Bela's laugh echoed back at him.

"That little—" Dean muttered under his breath, going downstairs and into his apartment once more.

 

"You know, I think I'm in love." Bela grinned from the back seat of her car. Her manager frowned at that.

"The freak—please, please don't say that. I'm getting really sick of always having to deal with your scandals." Ruby shot back, moaning.

"My heart is racing."

"Aghhhhh….we only just got done dealing with the thing with that entire band you dated. You can't just…Bela, no."

"Bela yes." Bela grinned, looking back at Dean's apartment building. Ruby just groaned.

 

"Wow, Dean, I don't think I've ever seen you brush your teeth quite so thoroughly"

"Shut up, Sam"

 

_______________________________________

 

"My Lord, there is no trace of him anywhere within the palace. He must have escaped." Two servants prostrated themselves before Rafael.

"Escaped." Rafael's voice was dry, emotionless.

"With all that has been happening, it is likely that he has someone powerful supporting him. He is but a simple scholar; it is unlikely that he would have gotten so far on his own."

"And who do you suppose that might be?"

"It would have to be a person powerful enough to overrule one of your orders. It is likely…it seems likely it a member of the Men of Letters."

Rafael gulped. "The Men of Letters"

"Yes, my liege. They are the only one who could have supported him through this; most of the remaining ministers are on our side."

Rafael cursed. "It was a mistake to keep him alive."

"My Lord?"

Rafael shook his head. "It is nothing. You know I am from Russia originally. I was part of a group that overturned the old king. Castiel's family were some of our greatest opponents. His father, especially, was an influential member of court. In the end, we won, and had them all killed. All except for one."

"Castiel." The servant deduced. "But why—"

"He was young, probably no more than ten years of age. I thought he was harmless." Rafael closed his eyes. "I was wrong; we should have killed him when we had the chance. I saw him a year or two ago…he thanked me for sparing his life, and said he would repay me some day….I admit I found his smile unsettling."

"But…if he thanked you for saving his life, then why?"

"Fool. He meant to repay me for killing his family; not for saving his life. He must have been training with the sword in secret; waiting for his chance. Twenty years ago he would have easily fallen to our warriors. Now? It will be harder to dispose of him, but not impossible."

There was a knock at the door. "Enter"

Uriel entered with a bow. "We have been looking at Castiel's people, and we have found someone quite…special."

"Special?" Rafael asked with new interest. "How?"

 

Castiel stood in the small room, studying the talisman. The words were still disconnected, but he supposed there was a sort of sense to them. Time, road, bridge, call, space, need, rescue, man. The path of time creates a bridge to space in order to save a man. It still was confusing, but he supposed it made more sense. In order to save his life, the talisman created a bridge to another world.

A woman ambled up to him. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Ah, yes. I heard there was a woman at this place; a powerful witch. She made this talisman for me, and I would like clarification on it."

The woman frowned thoughtfully. "I know which woman you speak of. Her name is Rowena, and she is powerful indeed. But she has long left this place. Perhaps I could look at it, though?"

Castiel nodded. The woman studied the talisman a bit, before sighing. "I believe it to translate roughly to this: The road of time connects within a space at the need to rescue a man…although the meaning eludes me. Why did you want help with it?"

"To be honest, I had an interesting experience." Castiel explained carefully. "I met end of a blade, and was whisked away to another place. At first, I believed myself to be dead…there were people there, but the manner of dress was so strange…there was a man who spoke to me in riddles I could not understand. I thought I was dreaming, but soon I found myself in our world once more, and I found that neither had been the case. I remain confused about the experience, and an explanation for it eludes my understanding."

"Ah, I see." The woman smiled. "You are very lucky. You have been shown a vision of the Other Side. Heaven. The man you men must have been an angel."  
Castiel blinked, surprised. He thought back to the man and his relaxed manner and strange words. He thought back to the man's clothes: torn pants and dirty boots, a tight black shirt and an odd jacket. He remembered the man's hair, so oddly short and styled.

He smiled slightly. "I did meet a man, but…I do not believe he was an angel. If an angel looks like that…heaven is not the paradise we think."

The woman laughed. "Indeed, later, you will have to tell me of your experience. It seems quite interesting."

"I would, but I am leaving shortly." Castiel answered. "Perhaps another day."

The woman frowned. "I perceive that your path is filled with danger…be careful. Think of your family."

Castiel winced internally. His easy, relaxed manner made way for stubborn anger. "With all due respect, my lady, this is something I am doing because of my family."

"I apologize if I over-stepped. You are walking a dangerous path, and have already seen death once. I would advise that you turn back before it can happen more permanently." She sighed. "But I am but a low-ranking witch. Do as you must, and know you always have a place here."

"Thank you." Castiel stood. "But I must be going. I look forward to returning when I can."

 

Violin music filled the garden. Meg's fingers flowed across the strings smoothly as her mind drifted off to Castiel. Was he alive? It had been nearly a full day, and he hadn't contacted her. Could it be that he was…that whatever he had been fleeing had…she was called out of her thoughts by Rafael's arrival.

"Oh, my Lord. What a surprise." She forced a seductive smile onto her face.

"Indeed, Meg, you look delectable as ever."

"To what do I owe the pleasure of Your Honor's visit?" She answered demurely. Someday, she was going to be able to leave this dirty brothel, and then she was going to rip Rafael's ugly face to bits.

"It's been too long. I apologize that I have been too busy to see you. That was a lovely song you were playing. Care to play it again for me?"

"I'd love to." She smiled. For now, she'd just have to ingratiate herself in his presence…but one day…one day his entrails would decorate the garden steps.

She followed him into one of the rooms, and began to play, making sure to shoot flirtatious glances in his direction. Finally, he opened his mouth.

"Castiel" He said, and she immediately stopped playing.

"I'm sorry?" she asked politely, and he continued.

"Do you happen to know Castiel of the Office of Special Advisors?" Rafael asked, looking innocent.

Meg pretended to think about it. "Office of special advisors…yes, I remember there was a guy of that name that came here from time to time with some other men." She smiled hat him, looking politely apathetic. "Why do you ask?"

"You're a good liar, Meg." Rafael's voice was silk. "I heard that you were the servant of Castiel's late wife, may she rest in peace."

Meg felt her heart stop and she struggled to control her features.

"It would seem, after some research, that you and he have quite an… interesting relationship."

"You're wrong." Meg shot back, struggling for some way to defend herself. "I'm a slave, that sort of thing would be—"

"Silence! Our matter of crucial importance is being overturned by a simple slave. That is unacceptable."

"Look, I don't know what you've heard, but I never—"

"I said be silent, you lying bitch!" Rafael finally lost his temper. "Guards, arrest her!"

Meg screamed back at him, "Why are you doing this?!"

"Because, my dear little whore, if I want to catch Castiel, I must capture you first. He needs to know exactly who he left my hands when he ran off like a coward." Rafael stalked towards her, caressing her face. "Considering the regard he holds for you, he would be very torn up to see you hurt in any way."

"You're a fool, then, Rafael. I'm just a slave. He doesn't care about me at all."

"Meg, Meg, Meg, and you were my favorite slut in the kingdom. I will see you killed slowly for your betrayal, you scheming little bitch."  
They carried her off, kicking and screaming.

 

___________________________

 

"So, look. I just want you to look out for yourself, Dean." Sammy was hovering again. Dean rolled his eyes as they walked on set.

"It's fine, Sammy. I'm not gonna ruin this for fun or anything."

"I'm just saying…like, watch out. Actors can get kind of catty and stuff. And Gordon is basically in love with Bela, so he might cause problems if she keeps coming onto you."

"I can handle myself. And besides, this isn't Doctor Sexy. In real life, guys don't actually fly into a jealous rage if their crushes don't like them back."

"I'm just saying. He's a popular actor, and he's playing your rival, here. So, like, what if art imitates life or whatever?"

"Sam. That only happens in soap operas. Just let me take care of myself, okay? Who knows, we could even become best friends or whatever."

"Yeah, sure."

He walked away to do his manager duties, and Dean sat down in the make-up chair. Gordon was already sitting, thumbing through a newspaper as the stylist worked on him.

Dean smiled at him. "Hey." He grinned.

Gordon rolled his eyes.

….okay then. Dean turned away, and started talking to his stylist. He tried a couple of other times to include Gordon, but was always given the brush off.  
"How do you like it?" His stylist finally said when she was done with him.

"I'm a painted whore." He laughed, and she did, too. Gordon snorted.

"Well, you got that right." He said, no joking in his voice. Dean glared at him, insulted.

"Hey, you got a problem with me? Because, seriously, I could go without your snide comments."

"Yeah, maybe I have a problem with fresh-faced twinks from acting school coming in and stealing all the parts as if they've got some right."

"Um, excuse me? I do have a right. I auditioned, they liked me, I got the part. If they didn't like you, that's your problem."

Dean stalked away angrily, and was stopped by another man a little ways off. "Hey." He said, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"What? You gonna tell me I don't get to be here, too?"

"Nah, Gordon's a bag of dicks. I just wanted to welcome you to the set, and say not to let assholes like him bother you."

"Oh. Thanks." Dean smiled. "Dean Winchester. What's your name?" He extended his hand, and the man shook it.

"Victor Henrickson."

"Oh!" Dean said in recognition. "Alexander Hamilton. Dude, your role is epic."

"Thanks." He smiled. "I'm playing it, so it has to be."

Dean laughed, and the two talked and laughed for a while, before Victor introduced him to Jo, who would be playing Hamilton's wife. She was pretty cool, and soon he was meeting her sister in the movie, Cassie Robinson.

Cassie was basically everything he looked for in a girl. Witty, funny, and hot as hell. He flirted with her easily, and was about to get her number when Bela was suddenly there.

"Oh, hey, babe. They want us to do photoshoots." She pressed against him possessively, and he inched away uncomfortably. She only pressed closer. "Sorry, girls, I need to steal him for a while."

Dean had never seen anyone smile with such malice behind it.

"What was that?" He hissed at her as soon as they were away, and she smiled innocently.

"What? We need to go to photoshoots."

The entire time they were taking pictures, she was all over him. Which, fair enough. They were supposed to be a romantic couple. But he could feel her fingernails pressing possessively around his neck as they hugged, and at one point she actually licked his neck.

When they finally kissed, she pushed her tongue past his lips, and he could feel the passion and possessiveness in her kiss. This was more than just for the cameras. He closed his eyes, leaning into it easily.

It was…just like old times. Just like how it was before they broke up. Kissing, he could forget so easily everything that had happened since then. He could easily forget all the reasons they shouldn't be together, and just bathe in the sensations.

When they finally were done with the shoot, she smiled at him. "We should really have angry sex later." She smirked cheekily, and he stepped away, irritated.

"No, Bela. This is not—this isn't a joke to me. I know you want get back together, but I'm not…look. I'm thirty years old. I don't do random hook ups anymore."

"Okay. Then let's date seriously." She answered easily.

"What?"

"Look, Dean. This isn’t a joke to me, either. Honestly, why did you think I even took this part? I play your co-star, help you get famous, and then we date with no problems. It'll be perfect."

"What? Are you kidding me? This is a serious role for me—and to you it's just a…just some sort of stupid joke?!"

"Come on, Dean. Quit looking for reasons why this wouldn't work out, and just accept this for what it is."

"And what is it?"

"Two attractive people getting together and falling in love. Come on, Dean, we had fun together. We can have fun this time around, too."

"Yes, Bela. We did have fun. Lots of fun. And then you cheated on me. Sorry, but I'm not interested in having that play out again. So, just…leave me alone, okay?" He pulled away from her, walking away.

Frustrated, he called Sam. "I'm going on a walk." He said shortly.

"What? Why? You still need more pictures."

"Not for long, Sammy. I'll be back in like ten minutes. I just need to clear my head, okay?"

"All right. Ten minutes, though. No longer."

"Okay, mom." Dean hung up, and walked out into the forest.

 

He was a few minutes into the woods, and he closed his eyes, sighing as he felt the breeze against his face. He heard the rusting of trees and the flapping of wings.

And, suddenly…galloping. He opened his eyes, and let out a tiny scream. About three feet from him, a horse with a rider was charging towards him. He dodged as fast as he could, and just managed to avoid getting trampled to death. Pain shot up his ankle, and his hands and cheek stung from where he'd fallen to the ground.

"You freaking bastard!" He cried out at the horse's rider, waving his arm blindly at the man. The horse had come to a stop shortly after passing him, and the man jumped off the horse in one fluid motion. He kneeled by where Dean sat in a pile on the ground.

"Are you hurt?" The man asked, and Dean's eyes widened in recognition, taking in the man's long hair pulled into a ponytail, his historic clothing, and his intense stare.

"You! The drunk guy!" He pushed himself up, scrambling to stand. His ankle exploded with pain, and he cried out, falling back down. The guy caught him, steadying him.

"Please do not over exert yourself. You're hurt."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." Dean gritted out, wincing as he looked at his ankle, bent at an unusual angle.

"I am not familiar with anyone by that name." The man said, and Dean shot an annoyed look at him, thinking it was a joke. The man's gaze was steady, though, and Dean was taken aback by the sincerity of his gaze. "My name is Castiel. And you are…Michael?"

"Yeah. I'm Dean Winchester." Dean extended his hand, and the man stared at it, before shaking it. "I'd say it was good to see you, but…"

"I apologize, I—" Castiel stood suddenly, and a man dressed like a Red Coat flung a sword at him, Castiel blocked the blow easily, and he turned the man's sword against him, stabbing him in the belly. The man choked, and Castiel kicked him to the ground. Dean watched in horror as the man gurgled out blood. His eyes were stuck on the dying man as Castiel spun back to him.

"Are you all right?"

"You…killed him." Dean felt numb. An empty warehouse. Wicked laughter. The choked sobs of the man as he choked on his own blood.

"Yes. He was an assassin, sent to kill me. Don't worry, you are safe now." He pressed a hand to Dean's face, the other a steadying force on his shoulder. "You look pale. How do you feel?"

Dean watched as the man in the red coat coughed up a last lungful of breath, and finally died. His body turned instantly to dust. His father, clutching his stomach. Red. Blood flowing from his stomach and mouth.

"He…turned to dust. You killed him and he turned to dust."

Castiel glanced back at the man. "Well, I do admit that part is new to me. Is this a usual occurrence in this place?"

"No…" Dean murmured, ears ringing. The world spun. The last thing he registered as his world went black were strong arms catching him as he fell.

**Author's Note:**

> And there is chapter one!
> 
> Tell me what you think.
> 
>  
> 
> This is kind of how I imagine Revolutionary war!Cas... His hair will be cut to normal Cas length in later chapters.


End file.
